


Jasmine, Lily, Lily, Rose

by tsukara (AndThenTheresAnne)



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, a victorian christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndThenTheresAnne/pseuds/tsukara
Summary: Enola Holmes, settling into her new life (and aliases) in London, finds an interesting little case, and just might find a meeting with an old friend as well.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 21
Kudos: 127
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Jasmine, Lily, Lily, Rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magpie mountains (hollowmen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowmen/gifts).



Much as the London weather had settled into fall without much fuss, Enola found herself settling into life in the city quite well. 

Not that it was without its challenges, of course. Enola was used to challenges, however. Thrived on them. She quickly built a new routine in the city, taking care to read at least something every day. The small collection of books she was slowly beginning to amass at her lodgings were a great help in that, as well as the papers she made sure to skim every day. She wouldn't want to miss a message meant for her, after all. 

She started with the most pressing of concerns--rather less pressing than it would be without the reward from "finding" Tewksbury (she preferred "rescuing", but then the papers had declined to ask her and she, eager to remain somewhat anonymous, had not corrected them): money. It was not something Enola had needed to think about when mother was around. But the humiliation of having to hand back the money their mother had left to her to her brother was something she was determined would never happen to her again.

Which meant finding her own way to earn money. Setting herself up as a detective was, of course, foremost on her mind, but it wasn't often in those first few months that she found anything more pressing than a wayward pet or a missing reticule. Even if that missing pet was sometimes as interesting as a runaway monkey.

Whereas the daily routine with her mother had consisted of sport and art as well as more academic study, Enola took it upon herself to undertake a different sort of study: that of the people around her. And in London there was no shortage of people around her. 

Her brief period on the run from her brothers, and current desire to stay out of trouble with them, taught her that she simply must become better at aliases. The briefly-donned widow disguise had been effective, to be sure, but perhaps not in all of the ways she had desired. It had been a flimsy cover, cooked up over the course of a few hours, some of which had been spent in a dress shop much like the first one she'd been to. Sherlock had pointed it out to her, she had come to realize: you really could tell so much about a person by looking at them--and there were times when it was better to be seen, and other times when it was far better to be unseen. 

One could do quite a bit of disappearing in the guise of a boy on the street, she found. If you'd no paper to sell, no brush to shine a shoe, and walked like you knew precisely where you were going, the higher-ups ignored you, the middle class discounted you, and everyone else saw you only because you're on the level with them, and not a looming threat. But it didn't work everywhere. 

With her hair down, wild with nothing but a ribbon to hold it back, and skirts at her ankles, she knew that she looked her true age of sixteen. But sixteen was a precarious age to be, out in the world. There were so many that wouldn't take what they saw as a child seriously. A shirtwaist and skirt, then far too many hairpins as she tried, inexpertly, to put her hair up in the style she'd seen in the fashionplates, and she had made a start on this new persona. 

Given her already-slim figure, she didn't need to tight-lace the corset, and she felt the outfit sat rather well on her. Adjusting the black ribbon tie around her neck and the smart little hat upon her head, Enola nodded once at herself, then strode out into the world. When asked her name, she told the woman at the front desk who was registering women for typewriting classes that she was Ivy Prentice, newly moved from the countryside.

While visiting offices to place the notice for her mother, Enola had noted several women working at the squat black machines, fingers clacking away in bright staccato. A second examination of those figures, young women doing work outside of the house and, presumably, being paid for it, intrigued her. Especially now that she needed to make her own ends meet. From there, finding out where a single young lady could learn such a skill was mere child's play. 

As she had with word games, Enola took to the typewriter immediately, memorizing the layout of the keys with such swiftness that she was soon able to type entire passages with her eyes closed. 

This expertise had led to some small work, and occasionally cases, more of the missing reticule variety. It had also led to one of her more interesting early cases, one that she privately referred to as the Case of the Decoy Diary.

Or something along those lines.

It had all begun with Daisy, a friend she had made in one of those typing classes who, it seemed, knew Edith and her tea shop as well. Daisy's sister Petunia, it turned out, was a maid for a posh family residence in London, the Alnwick's. Lady Alnwick, according to Daisy, was a highly-marriageable prospect in Society. All of this would have bored Enola's brains out of her ears if she hadn't heard the next part. 

As it happened, the honorable lady harbored tendencies very much in line with Enola's mother. _Perhaps not quite so incendiary,_ Enola thought to herself, sipping tea as she nodded at Daisy to go on. _Or perhaps, depending on what's in that diary..._

For, it turned out, the Lady Alnwick had been keeping her own records of where her funds went, secret from her father and his associates. "If it were to get out, she might not be such a prospect," Daisy pointed out.

"Would that be such a bad thing?" Enola asked.

Daisy shrugged, eating another biscuit. "It seems important to her, anyway."

 _Perhaps she has her own reasons_.

"Either way, I mentioned to Petunia that you worked for a lady detective, and of course she mentioned it to Lady Alnwick and she said she'd like to meet you," she summed up.

"Whatever for?"

Daisy leaned in closer, voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush. "Apparently someone has tried to _steal_ the diary already, rummaged through her things and all. Lady Alnwick was clever enough to make up a fake one for them to find, but she suspects they know it's a fake and are going to try again." She sat back, confident that this had caught Enola's interest. 

And it truly had. Daisy didn't have much more to say on the subject of suspects, but she promised to set up the meeting with the lady through Petunia quite soon.

Still, the prospect of a new case didn't distract her for long and she found herself leaving the teashop to make her way to Westminster. She knew the House of Lords had a vote that day and was resolved to see if she could spot a particular peer in the yard before that.

Evidently she had timed it correctly today, seeing a few top-hatted men milling about outside in conversational groups of two or three--and one, shorter than most of the rest, lingering by the fence. She recognized Tewkesbury well before he spotted her, given how she was dressed today, so she took the moment to observe, once again, how well he looked. _Though I still think he looked more comfortable in his traveling clothes_.

Following that train of thought further was halted when he spotted her, a little 'o' of surprise turning into a smile upon recognition. She approached the high fence, giving a little nod of the head that she immediately regretted, worried her hat would fall off if she did that too enthusiastically. It was also the closest she would get to a curtsy, even for him. "Why if it isn't Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilweather."

"Enola." His smile was more than greeting enough for her. 

She matched it with one of her own, humor shining through. "Miss Prentice, actually," she corrected him. The alias she was trying to build up would do much better if she didn't have some too-important puffed-up earl or something overhear her being referred to by another name. Especially one as unusual as 'Enola'.

Tewkesbury was quick to adapt though, still smiling. "Miss Prentice. Allow me to offer an apology." Her confusion quickly cleared as she realized he was removing the delicate flower from his buttonhole and holding it out through the fence.

"For me?" When he nodded, she took the flower, gently wrapping fingers around the long stem adorned with white flowers.

"Jasmine," he identified the plant, the delicate scent rising up from it confirming this.

Carefully, she tucked the sprig behind her ear, the top flower just brushing her cheek, where she could feel a blush, unbidden, coming on. "But now you've no boutonniere," she pointed out. 

His smile did not abate, though she thought she spotted a hint of pinkness in his face as well. "I shall survive without one, I think."

For a moment more the two stood at the fence, neither having anything more to say, and neither one wanting to leave. 

The tolling of the quarter hour from the clock tower brought them back to themselves, both suddenly realizing they had places to be and things to do. Still, he managed to catch her hand and, after a moment's hesitation, pressed a kiss to it again. Even through the kidskin glove she wore this time it still sent a thrill through her that she still didn't know what to do with. "'Til next time, Miss Prentice."

The alias reminded her of her pretended station, and she nodded her head fractionally. "Until next time."

She did, to her credit, wait until she got home to pull out the little flower language dictionary her mother had left her and discover the meaning behind the hothouse jasmine he had given to her. The message of 'amiability' was not a surprising one, true, but she still carefully pressed the sprig of blossoms between book pages to save it for another day. 

-

"I suspect the culprit is someone close to me. Or possibly my father, but this seems... less likely, given the circumstances."

Enola noted this down in the green leather notebook she'd bought specifically for her casework. The ivy leaves bordering the cover reflected the alias she had chosen, which she thought was a neat little detail. That it reminded her to answer to that alias was only a bonus, in her mind.

The drawing room of the Alnwick's London townhouse was airy and well-lit, early winter sunlight coming obliquely through the windows not needing gaslight supplement just yet, even with the length of their conversation. Enough to go through at least one pot of tea. Enola suspected that Lady Alnwick had been evaluating her as much as Enola had been doing the same. Finally, she had seemed to conclude that Enola, or Miss Prentice, as it were, was worth trusting with the details of this case.

"And you believe they are likely to make another attempt on the diary?" 

Lady Alnwick hid her expression behind another sip of tea before answering. "Indeed."

Enola thought, recalling what information she had gleaned from Petunia via her sister, Daisy. Little more than gossip, but there were several facts that Enola had retained as potentially important. "I hear you are having a ball, a Christmas party, sometime later this month." Lady Alnwick nodded, a small furrow in her brow as she tried to determine where this conversational twist was leading. "Do you suspect they'll make another attempt before then?"

The other woman considered this question, then tilted her head in the negative. "No, I don't believe so."

Enola tapped her pencil firmly on the page, then closed the notebook over it. "That's it then."

"The Christmas Party?" 

"Of course," Enola assured Lady Alnwick. "It is the perfect opportunity." _To dangle my feet in the water for sharks,_ was the unspoken addition. "For both the culprit to make an attempt, and us to catch him in the act."

Lady Alnwick eventually shrugged. "If you think it will aid, your name will be on the guest list."

"Ah, well, not _my_ name..."

\--

Finding the dress had been a bit of an adventure, it was true. Lady Alnwick was paying her well enough for this case, and besides which she'd given Enola a nice bonus, with explicit instructions to use it whichever way she felt best.

Enola might have taken this as a slight about her typical state of dress as Ivy, but point the first was that it was a persona, nothing more, and point second, posh people seemed to have this need to keep up appearances that filtered down to those who worked for them. And the third point was that, for all that she preferred the practical shirtwaist, she didn't have anything against nice clothes. As long as no one was trying to force her into a tight-laced corset.

The green velvet gown was cut lower than most things she had worn, it was true, but she figured that if she dressed it right, it would suit her well enough to be going on with.

As long as the 'her' in question was not one Enola Holmes. 

Through the little network of contacts she had built up during her time in London, one of them was a young woman only a little older than herself who worked out of a dress reform shop near Enola's permanent lodgings. Gwyneth was a certified whiz with a needle and thread, having all the skill Enola herself lacked in that arena, and then some. Enola may have purchased the gown at the department store, but it certainly wouldn't look it after Gwyneth was finished with it.

The gown, when she picked it up, was resplendent, little golden embroidered daylilies along the neckline, the delicate-looking cap sleeves picking up the gold again. As Enola gaped at the dress, Gwyneth looked more than pleased at her reaction. "It should fit your mistress a right treat," she told Enola, her Welsh accent rolling the words smooth as river pebbles. 

"Yes, of course." Enola remembered that, yes, she was supposedly there to fetch the dress for the lady detective--emphasis on the Lady--that she worked for. Nominally. Who just happened to have the same measurements as Enola, or Ivy, as Gwyneth knew her.

Gwyneth kept chatting as she took the dress back from Enola's hands and packaged it up, first in thin paper to protect the dress, then thicker brown paper for protection in transport. "Shouldn't be too much of a thing to find some flowers to go in her hair, they sell all sorts at the market."

Flowers, gloves, shoes--well, boots she could run in, anyhow. With the skirt down to the floor (and a little past) no one would be looking at her shoes anyway, she figured. The perfect look for the Lady she was going to pretend to be, at least for an evening.

"Anything else for you, love?" Gwyneth asked, handing over the unassuming-looking bundle to Enola.

"No." Enola smiled. "It's perfect."

\--

"May I have this dance?"

Enola turned, smiling prettily, the fan held in front of her face. "I regret, sir, that I am engaged." It was the phrase that she had coached herself through saying several times before she had even begun to think to take the risk of appearing at a ball. It was difficult to focus on looking for sharks when one's feet were being trod all over, after all. 

_Still, it was bold of him to ask, I suppose_ , she thought, observing the gentleman who accept her polite rejection with an equally polite bow. She had informed Lady Alnwick that her card was to be filled with the bare minimum of dances required to be suitable (since Enola, admittedly, had no idea how many--or few-- that was herself). To her surprise, the hostess had slipped her a dance card soon after she arrived. Some names were filled in, but she assured Enola that those were, cleverly, all people she had left off the guest list, for one reason or another. 

And what a party it was. The hall glowed, literally, candles reflecting from mirrors and polished surfaces and jewels, nestled among boughs of mistletoe and holly. Here and there, like little jewels in their settings, peeked fragrant white lilies and scarlet roses. Enola wondered if the servants had gotten the blossoms from the same source as the yellow lilies she had wrestled into her own hair (with only a bit of an assist from her tolerantly helpful landlady). She had thought they matched the embroidery and trim of the gown quite nicely, and, in her mind, matched the beauty of the other hair ornaments she had seen, ranging from little winking gems to full-on tiaras on some of the married women. A side room held refreshments for the assembled guests, and in others conversation reigned. The main hall was a giddy whirl of dancers, couples spinning through the motions to the band in the corner. 

Enola had made the circuit once already, keeping her eyes on the main suspects, waiting for any of them to take off somewhere they ought not go, or something equally suspicious. _They must make the attempt tonight, it is too good an opportunity to pass up!_

"May I have the next dance... my lady?"

It was the slight hesitation before the title, and the hint of familiarity, that piqued her interest, even before she'd turned. And yes, there he was, in the flesh, looking marvelously well-turned-out if she did say so herself. Which, of course, she didn't. "Why, Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilweather." She couldn't help the smile that spread across her face at seeing him. "No." She hadn't meant to be so blunt about her refusal, of course. "I mean, I, my dance card, that is," she found herself stumbling over her words awkwardly.

To his credit, he looked only a little taken aback. "Of course, I- I meant nothing by it." It seemed her stumbling had surprised him into the same sort of thing. 

Enola huffed in frustration, mostly at herself, truth be told, before putting a hand on his arm in much the same manner she'd seen other ladies do to those men they wished to steer off another direction. "Walk with me?" She hinted unsubtlely when he did not move for a brief moment.

This turned his surprise into action, and he let her steer him away from the dance floor and toward the room where refreshments were laid out. Once there, where it was a little quieter away from the bustle of the dance floor, she explained, _sotto voce_. "I am on an investigation, so as much as I would like to dance with you, I cannot."

His shy grin was rendered a little more sly given the oblique angle she saw it from. "You'd like to dance with me?"

Enola briefly scowled, then hid it away again. It wouldn't _do_ for a lady such as the Baroness Marshburn to be seen scowling at a gentleman she'd taken to walking about the room with, after all. "Focusing on the wrong part again, aren't you?"

Tewkesbury's only answer was a shrug, which she had learned to read as half not being able to answer with words, and half pleased embarrassment. Enola, satisfied that she had not hurt him too badly, refocused her attention on the suspects that she could see from this vantage point. 

"An investigation?" He queried, voice low to match hers. 

She glanced at him side-long, considering how much to tell him, but before she could decide, she caught movement in the shadows beyond him. One of the doors to the servant's area was standing ajar. Through it she glimpsed a man in the evening dress of a party guest creeping down the hall towards a stair where he was certainly not meant to be. 

Quickly, Enola made a decision, giving Tewkesbury's arm a light squeeze. "Go get Lady Alnwick, or the butler." She recalled that the lady had said something about trusting the butler quite a bit, and that the man, when she had met him, had seemed like a sturdy sort of person. Perhaps the sort that could hold a culprit down long enough for Scotland Yard to arrive.

Trusting Tewkesbury to do what she had said, Enola moved off toward the open door. She couldn't do anything about the soft swish of her dress, but she kept her steps as quiet as possible, following up the stairs. The shadowed form of the man directed Enola down the hall, toward what she assumed was Lady Alnwick's private chambers. 

Edging in the door, Enola discovered the scene of a gentleman, blond hair somewhat in disarray, bent over the trunk at the foot of a lushly-appointed bed. It seemed the trunk had contained linens of some sort, several of which were now strewn behind him as he searched for something. Presumably the diary. 

"I really don't think you're supposed to be in here."

For a moment, the man stared at her, trying to place her as threat or no. Enola smiled, knowing it wouldn't make her look any more harmless than the rest of her appearance did. 

She was not surprised when her charged her, settling into a familiar stance. When he hit her, evidently expecting to be able to throw her out of the way, she twisted to get out of his hold and stand upright once more. 

Enola reset her stance, ready for him to come at her again, and was briefly surprised when, instead, he turned and ran, headed toward the same back stairs he had come up. She had been expecting him to keep coming at her, she realized, because that was what Bowler Hat had done. Cursing herself for falling into an old expectation, she took off after him.

She got to the top of the stairs just in time to see the butler, just as solid-looking as she remembered him, stretch out his arm just in time for the culprit to slam into it, falling back onto the floor. A moment later, Lady Alnwick and Tewkesbury appeared behind the butler.

Lady Alnwick made a disgusted noise, looking down at the gentleman lying on the floor with utter disdain. "Archibald Covington. I might have known."

Archibald looked up at her with astonishment, then twisted at the sound of Enola's footsteps descending. "L-Lady Alnwick! I--It was that girl!" He twisted, pointing an accusing finger up the stairs. "I saw her! She was stealing from-- from..." He faltered, not seeing the expression of suspicion on her face that he had obviously hoped for. 

His own expression twisted into a sneer then, but his lunge was checked by the butler again. Lady Alnwick strode up to him, unafraid (though, by his own expression, the butler was not well-pleased with that, possibly afraid for his lady's safety still). He started to form words that, even from here, Enola could tell were going to be poisonous and hateful, before Lady Alnwick's sharp laugh caught him short.

"Your sister," she said, enunciating carefully. "Does _not_ send her regards."

These words had little meaning to Enola, nor to Tewkesbury, judging by his face, but seemingly meant quite a bit to one Archibald Covington. All the fight seemed to go out of him at that, his pallor shifting to an ashy grey. He did not even resist much when the butler, on Lady Alnwick's instructions, had him stand and brought to the servant's entrance, where the police were to arrive momentarily. 

She was kind enough to show Enola and Tewkesbury to a small drawing room that, while decorated for the holiday, was not filled with party guests. She hurried away, mentioning that she ought to start bidding her guests goodnight. 

"We never did get around to that dance."

Enola looked at Tweksbury almost disbelievingly, that he would bring that up, of all things, before she burst into laughter, him joining her a moment later. 

"Are you always going to be blundering in and out of my life, Viscount Twekesbury, Marquess of Basilweather?" She asked, pulling back once her laughter had subsided. 

His smile turned a little shy as he held on to just her hand, then made a half-bow over it. "Only when you're not breezing out of mine."

Enola had no good answer for that, or way to hide the blush that was creeping its way up her cheeks. He seemed to feel much the same way, casting his gaze about the room. "Ah look," he said absently. "Mistletoe."

She wanted to tease him for the inanity of the comment. She wanted to note the silliness of commenting that Christmastide decorations included that particular parasite. Instead, "May I," she heard herself asking. "Kiss you?" 

Time seemed to stand still momentarily as she realized that those were the words that left her mouth. Though part of her wished she could stuff the whole blooming sentence back in, it wasn't because she didn't _mean_ it.

She did so wish he would _say_ something though, instead of looking like a stunned carp. But the look passed and the moment passed and he smiled at her with the look of one discovering the sun after so long in the dark. "Yes, I mean, that would be very, er, jolly of, well, not that--" 

Enola stopped his mouth with a kiss. A simple press of skin to skin, warm and fleeting and nothing at all the sort that should send a tingle down to her toes, but it did all the same.

The clatter in the hallway of someone approaching caused the two to spring apart, each to their own separate spheres. But Enola couldn't help noticing his cheeks looking just as afire as her own feel. 

A moment later Lady Alnwick bustled back into the room, the breath of cold and snow on her. "Ivy, darling!" She exclaimed, then without warning fell upon Enola in an uncharacteristically emotive embrace, only backing off to hold her at arm's length a breath later. "You were spectacular, thank you!"

Enola smiled back at her employer. "It was nothing, my lady."

Lady Alnwick waved this off, before turning to Tewkesbury. "I am so sorry to have taken you from the party, my Lord, but I am ever so grateful for your help."

Tewkesbury, to Enola's amusement, seemed slightly taken aback to be apologized to. "As she said, it was nothing. I was happy to help when, ah, Ivy asked." To his credit, he only paused momentarily on her name.

"Nevertheless, I am indebted to you. The party is breaking up now, but please, let me see you out." 

Tewkesbury agreed, and the small party made their way from the drawing room to the entrance hall, where the cloak room was doing brisk business. The appearance of their hostess soon produced a top hat and Chesterfield coat for Tewkesbury, and Enola's thick cloak.

Goodbyes, there in the hall, were hurried, nothing spoken of that would alert the other guests leaving that anything untoward had happened. Enola soon found herself bundled up and out in the snow, warmly wrapped in her woolen cloak.

The season had begun unseasonably warm, something that the snow currently piling up in the soft lamplight of London seemed to make feel a million miles away and far ago. It was only moments before Tewkesbury's carriage was pulling up and he looked at her inquisitively. "How are... may I ask, how are you getting home?"

Enola, who had been planning to walk and catch a Hansom cab, pulled the cloak a bit closer to herself as a chill gust blew past, kicking up a glitter of snowflakes. "It's not so far," she demurred, secretly not looking forward to finding a cab or facing even the short trip home in this weather. 

"Nonsense. Here, I'll take you. I don't mind." The carriage door was open and inviting, if only because it was out of the bitter wind.

Enola caught the look the driver was very studiously not giving his young employer as she weighed the pros and cons of each. True, it would mean directing him to where she was living--or at least close to--and it might seem a little odd for a girl to, unchaperoned, alight from such a carriage.

As she was considering this, a gust blew a few flakes of snow straight into the collar of her cloak, making her yelp and leap toward the door of the carriage. His inadequately-smothered laugh followed her in, and soon himself as well.

It was, indeed, a short ride to the location she provided (though it was still around the corner from her place proper). After a moment's consideration across the dim cab, she took a card from her small handbag, offering it to him wordlessly.

He took it, smiling at her in curiosity. _Of course, he'll have to wait to read it properly_ she considered. She was rather proud of these though. She'd had the simple trade cards printed up, advertising the services of a lady detective, the very one under whose name she would be operating, and how to contact 'her'. 

"For... the next time something... happens," She explained, without really explaining much at all. He seemed to grasp the meaning she couldn't quite put into words, sliding the card into his breast pocket as the carriage came to a stop just where she had requested. 

The opening of the door brought a renewed swirl of cold air into the compartment and Enola hurried to alight. Tewkesbury's hand was warm in hers as he aided her descent into the snow. "Until the next time... something happens," he said, the kiss he pressed to her knuckles no less heart-fluttering than then very first one had been, or the last, despite her thicker winter gloves.

He let her go then, and she whirled off into the snow, turning back at the last moment before the door was shut to shout, "Merry Christmas, Tewkesbury!"

Any answer was lost to the snow, but as Enola hurried around the corner into the cheerful warmth of her lodgings, she hoped the 'next time' came soon.

**Author's Note:**

> So pleased I got to write in this fandom for you! This was great fun to write, even if I occasionally got myself lost in the weeds of research. I learned so many interesting things about Holmesian London! The title is a variation on a popular song. Enola's styles are mostly taken from the growing trend of the New Woman, and the return of Aesthetic dress (in fact, her party dress is based off one in particular). 
> 
> I hope this season finds you with a little more light than we had before, and may you have a happy Yuletide.


End file.
